War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(13)

But it’s that gaze that I can still feel against my back like a brand.

I glance over my shoulder and meet those inquisitive, violent eyes. The corner of his mouth curls into a challenging smile.

That’s all it takes for me to do the one thing I hate the most: flee.

I sit like a fool in the near darkness of my tent for several hours. Even from here I can hear the party raging on, and I can smell food cooking.

I would slip out and grab a bite to eat, except that I would then have to show my face. It’s bad enough that I ran, but at least it was some sort of exit. To show back up as though nothing happened …

I can see War’s challenging, taunting gaze. He would enjoy that. He’d think of it as another opening. That’s really what stops me.

The world might be coming to a bloody end, but damn it if I don’t skip a meal just to save face.

So I ignore the smell of meat, and after lighting the small oil lamp Tamar gave me, I read the dog-eared romance novel left in my tent and idly debate how horrible of an idea it would be to burn the camp down.

Amongst all the distant conversation, I hear footsteps approach. Instinctively, I feel my muscles tense.

After everything War said to me, I expect to be carted away to his tent, so I’m not surprised when the flaps to my own tent rustle, and Tamar enters my borrowed residence.

“I’m not going,” I say.

“Going where?” she asks.

I frown. “You’re not taking me to his tent?”

“War’s?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “There are plenty of willing women the horseman can choose from if he wants to enjoy a warm body tonight. He doesn’t need for it to be you.”

Other women? I imagine those heavy, assertive hands settling on other flesh, and I scowl.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Tamar says, changing the subject.

She sits down next to me. “I heard you two talking earlier,” she says, her words hushed. She leans in close. “How do you know the horseman’s language?” she asks, her voice hushed.

I shake my head.

I’m about to deny it when she says, “We all saw you communicate with him,” she insists.

I hadn’t realized anyone was watching the exchange that closely.

I take Tamar in. “I don’t know what I heard,” I admit, “or why he spoke with me at all. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I’ve got. I don’t understand any of this.”

Tamar searches my face. Eventually she nods and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “War goes through women.” She says this like it’s some sort of confession, and I feel a little sick. I really don’t want to know about War’s personal relationships.

“If you want to be over and done with him,” she continues, “just give in for a night or two.”

What is with the women here and giving me unsolicited sex advice?

“It’ll gain you some measure of protection,” she adds.

Last I checked, a blade protected me just fine.

“And if I don’t give in?” I say.

There’s a long pause, then Tamar grabs my chin. “This is a dangerous place to be a woman—particularly a pretty one.” Her eyes drop to where War’s blade rests next to my oil lamp. “Keep that knife close. You’ll probably need it.”





Chapter 6


I take Tamar’s final piece of advice—I sleep with War’s dagger beneath my head.

It’s a good thing I do, too.

“Wake, Miriam.” A deep voice drags me from sleep.

My eyes snap open.

Sitting next to my pallet, his arms loosely slung over his knees, is War.

My hand goes for my blade, and I sit up, brandishing my weapon.

War’s eyes gleam as he takes me in, blade and all.

“Enjoying my dagger?” he asks.

I start at his words. He’s speaking fluent Hebrew.

“You can talk,” I state. And you know my name, I realize.

He grunts.

“I mean, I understand you.” I’m used to hearing him speak in tongues, his meaning overlaying the words. It’s unnerving to actually hear him speak the same language as me.

Which means this entire time, he’s been able to understand me.

I keep my blade pointed at him. “Why do you speak in tongues?” I ask.

Wrong question, Miriam. The correct question is: What the fuck are you doing in my tent?

The horseman gets up and comes closer. In response, I lift my weapon.

He utterly ignores the threat. War sits down on the edge of my pallet, even as the tip of my blade presses into his skin of his throat.

War’s black eyes drop to the blade, and the corner of his mouth curves up. He looks darkly amused.

There’s obviously no point threatening him. If anything, I’m getting the impression that he finds the whole thing endearing.

“How is it that I can understand you when you’re speaking in tongues?” I ask.

“You are my wife,” he responds smoothly. “You understand my nature and my gifts.”

There’s one problem with that. “I’m not your wife.”

War smirks, his expression mocking me again. “Would you like me to prove my claim? I’d be more than happy to.” His words full of sexual undertones.